Revealed (9 page)

Yes, more often than not, Phillippa was thankful for her freedoms. For every time she would have welcomed a supporting presence and the wisdom of her elders, there had been a dozen others that the restrictions a mother or chaperone wrought would have hampered her most unduly.

She liked being able to do as she pleased, no matter how lonely it became.

But she wasn’t alone, she thought, shaking off such a ridiculous notion. She had friends, like Nora, to keep her company. She had rivals, like Lady Jane Cummings, to keep her occupied. She had Bitsy, who relied on her completely—except for those times Bitsy had business to attend to, wherein his walker took him out—and she had Totty, who pinched Phillippa in the arm to bring her attention back to the table.

“Ouch! Totty!” Phillippa jolted back, rubbing her arm.

“Well, stop thinking while I’m talking. Who gave you such license? I was telling you all about the commotion at Lady Draye’s!”

“Why, what happened at Lady Draye’s?”

“I cannot believe you were not there! It was madness. That Marquis you’ve got your eye on, he gave his dance with Lady Jane away to Mr. Worth! He did the reel with your friend Nora instead.”

Phillippa nearly spat out her tea. “Marcus Worth! How did
he
get to Lady Draye’s?”

Totty looked at her charge with an expression of astonishment. “Carriage, I expect. Much like the rest of us.”

“Of . . . of course,” Phillippa said coolly, delicately dabbing at the corner of her mouth. But all the while her mind was reeling: How did dust-covered Marcus Worth recover his appearance enough to go to the Draye affair after being encased in a sarcophagus with her? Maybe he really was a spy. Such quick-change abilities certainly warranted a mark in the pro column.

“So . . . how did Lady Jane feel about having her circumstances so reduced?” Phillippa tried to maintain coolness in her voice.

“Hmph,” Totty said, gulping her tea. “To watch Lady Jane, you would think that dancing with a second son instead of a Marquis is no step down at all. Rarely have I seen anyone so gracefully cool.” At Phillippa’s eyebrow, her chaperone added, “Excepting you, of course, my dear.”

“Lady Jane’s too insipid to lay any claim to grace. Still, she could not have been happy with Mr. Worth’s dancing abilities.”

“Actually, I believe he acquitted himself rather well,” Totty said on a yawn. It was still very early for her.

“Really? But he’s so tall; it must have been awkward,” she mused.

“Truly, darling, I have little idea. You can’t expect me to pay attention to Lady Jane’s dance partners all evening, you know.”

While Totty, having finished with her hearty breakfast of tea, tomato juice, and alcohol, turned her attention to the morning’s stack of invitations, Phillippa tapped her teeth in what she knew to be an unbecoming fashion.

But in times of truly deep contemplation, teeth-tapping tended to occur.

Really, she shouldn’t care as she did. Who gave a fig if Marcus Worth was England’s premier spy against the French? The war had ended twice over, and his name—or pseudonym—no longer graced the papers. She had no reason to pay any attention to his movements.

But what
had
he been doing dancing with Lady Jane?

Stop it, Philly! she told herself harshly. Her concern was not whom Lady Jane had danced with; it was whom she hadn’t. Namely Broughton. He had done as she bade and refused a dance with Lady Jane. That brought a slow, sure smile to her face. Broughton had played the game admirably, and the next challenge would be his to issue. Phillippa felt a small twinge of fear as to what the challenge could entail, but all in all, this season was going wholly according to plan. So she should not allow her attention to be diverted by someone of no importance and no proven secret identity.

“Your mother writes,” Mrs. Tottendale said with a raised brow as she scanned a letter, “to remind you not to book the same musicians as last year; they were the only dim spot in an otherwise bright party.”

“Party?” Phillippa replied quizzically, her attention dragged back to the breakfast room.

Totty looked up, placing the letter to the side. “The Ball, dear.” At Phillippa’s blank stare, Totty slapped a hand to her forehead. “The Benning Ball! Phillippa, it’s less than two months away. Don’t tell me you forgot! You never forget anything!”

Phillippa felt color stain her cheeks, shame mingling with horror at her own thoughtlessness.

She had forgotten. The Benning Ball was one of the premiere social events of the year. Wellington and Prinny vied for invitations. When she first reemerged in society, her mother had insisted that Phillippa throw a ball—and she had been right to do so. The Viscountess was of great assistance then. But as Phillippa’s popularity grew, it seemed her mother felt quite confident to cease meddling and leave the entire business up to her. On a fixed date, all of her family and the rest of the world descended upon town for the occasion, and Phillippa was in charge of it all. From the theme to the napkin color to the entertainments, she chose every last detail. Except, apparently, the musicians.

“Of course I didn’t forget, Totty. I simply expected mother to be in town by now, to . . . add her judgment to the precedings.”

“Yes, your mother said something to that effect,” Totty replied, as she picked up the next correspondence in the pile. “But it seems she’s enjoying herself far too much. She leaves everything up to you and is wholly confident you will outdo your success of last year.”

Oh God. Oh God. Phillippa bit into a piece of ham and furiously began chewing. So little time—the best caterers and florists will be overbooked for the end-of-Season events already! The theme had to be decided, decorations made accordingly. Invitations, engravers, musicians, entertainments—if she failed in this, she would be mocked mercilessly. What would Broughton think? Lady Jane would use this to her advantage for certain, make no mistake. She would have to have something, something truly spectacular to outdo last year, something—something people would be in awe of, something that would make the papers the next day. And here, she thought with a laugh, she had been idly, sillily, mulling over how to reveal Marcus Worth as the Blue Raven!

Phillippa stopped still, mid chew. What if . . . she swallowed her food loudly.

She would need proof, of course. Hell, she would need to be able to present him on a stage. But a theme began to emerge in her mind. Cloaks and daggers. Bravura and derring-do. All she needed was to be certain, to have physical evidence of Marcus Worth’s secret identity. She had to be sure. But how would she gain access to his life? How was she to find out?

“Oh!” she exclaimed, shaking her head. It was no good. The chances of him being the Blue Raven were slim, and she would be mucking around in someone’s life for her own gain. Generally, when she did this, she at least received that person’s tacit permission. She should forget the idea entirely. She should forget him.

“Dear Lord. Lady Worth just will not give up, will she?” Totty said with a snort.

“What?” Phillippa nearly overset her teacup, she swung round so quickly.

“Lady Worth has invited us to a dinner party—again.”

“Let me see!” she grabbed the small ivory card out of a startled Totty’s hand.

“Its nothing, darling. Lady Worth throws these twice a month. Dull as dishwater, I’m told; it’s all so she can attempt to recruit new investors for her charity.”

“What’s the charity?” Phillippa tried (and admittedly failed) to inject nonchalance into her voice.

Totty, looking at Phillippa as if she had grown an extra head, answered, bewildered, “Some orphanage, I believe. Goodness gracious, what do you care? You can’t possibly think to
attend
?”

Lord Worth was Mr. Marcus Worth’s brother. Chances were, this was a dinner party he was forced to attend often. And even if Mr. Worth was not present, clues about his life would be.

“Darling, no!” Totty pleaded. “It’s ridiculous! The Worths are not
our
kind of people. They are so reprehensibly goody-goody, they wouldn’t know fun if it shot out of their noses! How can you expect them to throw a supper party that’s remotely enjoyable on any level?”

She did have other things to do, didn’t she? Win the hand of Broughton. Defeat Lady Jane. Plan a ball to end all other balls. Go to her modiste after nuncheon. Oh, she shouldn’t care about Marcus Worth. She shouldn’t be curious about his activities.

But, God help her, she was.

She examined the note again. “It’s for tomorrow a week. A week from tomorrow, we shall have to dine somewhere.”

“You didn’t come down with a fever last night?” Totty asked anxiously. “Are you feeling nauseated?”

“No.”

“Well, I am. Leighton! Another tomato juice, if you please!”

“Perhaps I’m feeling charitable. Accept the invitation, Totty.” Phillippa handed the ivory card back to Totty, who merely shook her head.

“Oh, Phillippa, please reconsi—”

“Accept the invitation, Totty.”

Goodness, Phillippa thought. Normally, her friends didn’t have to be told what to do more than once.

“
M
RS. Benning, Mrs. Tottendale! I cannot tell you how pleased I am you accepted my invitation to dine!” Marcus entered the drawing room just in time to see (and hear) his sister-in-law greet her latest arrivals.

Mariah had been glowing for a week now, positively alight, saying that this supper party would be the best yet. Honestly, Marcus had no idea how it could be any better or worse than the others; a change of menu altered very little, and every party ended with Mariah either triumphant in luring other people to her way of thinking or disappointed in her efforts.

It was far too often the latter. Marcus was continually surprised that Mariah kept doing these.

But now, Marcus understood her sister’s nerves for this particular evening. Her insistence on the best courses, the polished and repolished silver, the best tallow for the chandelier. Mrs. Phillippa Benning, her considerable influence and her astounding wealth, would be a catch, indeed.

Marcus leaned against the doorjamb and regarded Mariah’s prize quarry.

She looked stunning, but that was nothing new. Phillippa Benning was dressed at the height of fashion, although in what, Marcus had no idea. A blue silk. But it was a very nice silk and a very nice blue. Something about the way she wore clothes made them . . . better? Marcus shook his head. As if that made any sense. Or mattered to begin with.

Her companion was dressed well, too, but everyone knew Mrs. Tottendale was naked without a glass in hand. Which a servant promptly remedied.

Greetings done, and Mariah welcoming the next arrivals, Phillippa was free to move about the room, nodding to a few people she knew from someplace or another. As she passed his station by the door, her gait slowed, just barely, but all she did was give him the same cool nod as she had doled out to others. He returned it, and when he did, their eyes met for the briefest of seconds.

He’d be damned if he read any recognition of their last mutual adventure in her eyes.

It was hard, very hard, to reconcile this cool, prepossessed creature who was the queen of every room she entered with the dusty girl in a sarcophagus or even the cheeky lady who bribed a child with marzipan.

Still, all of those women had one thing in common: They were all looking out for their own interests.

Marcus shook his head ruefully. Mariah had her work cut out for her, if she was determined to have Phillippa Benning consider the orphans a worthy cause.

He’d bet all the money in his pockets that Phillippa Benning rarely considered anyone but herself.

Halfway through supper, Phillippa had decided conclusively on two things.

First, she had no
earthly
clue if Mr. Marcus Worth was the Blue Raven.

Second, Lady Mariah Worth was insane.

The first, more inconclusive conclusion was arrived at through a week’s worth of research into the matter. None of her subtle (and she could be amazingly subtle) inquiries into Mr. Worth’s rank in the army, or his division, current occupation,
anything
, had yielded fruit.

In fact, no one—not even a general—could confirm that Marcus Worth had even been in the army!

Perhaps she had been too subtle.

But he had been in the army; she was sure of it. She recalled he wore his red coat to a gala event in the spring, held by the Prince Regent. All the officers in London were invited, and all wore their uniforms.

And he had been there. She knew it. One thing Phillippa never doubted was her own memory.

Plus he had attended the parade. Not in uniform, but he had attended. He had some level of love for the military.

Since her own discreet inquiries had gone nowhere, she was forced to rely on direct questioning, which was facilitated by the fact that she was seated directly across from Mr. Worth.